


give my heart, give my soul

by MooksMookin, spacegirlkj



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Gods & Goddesses, Historical, Immortality, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut, Non-Graphic Violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Soulmates, Temporary Character Death, this spans like 1000AC-2017AC so get ready
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 12:36:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11555340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooksMookin/pseuds/MooksMookin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacegirlkj/pseuds/spacegirlkj
Summary: The story of Oikawa, the boy who can never die, and Hinata, the boy who will live again and again.Reincarnation/Soulmates au(day one, prompt soulmates)





	give my heart, give my soul

**Author's Note:**

> READ THE NOTES READ THE NOTES READ THE NOTES
> 
> ALL DEATH IS TEMPORARY I WONT DO THAT TO YOU DONT WORRY  
> this au is something ive been thinking about for a long time and am so thankful mooks (@mooksmookin) decided to be apart of! they beta'd this as well as gave lots of input. I Love Them
> 
> this au is really my baby i feel strongly about the themes in it and the story behind it so i really hope you enjoy! idk when part 2 will be up but who knows! please enjoy the fic~
> 
> ((happy birthday oikawa, here's some fucking angst))

Oikawa can remember being born.

At least, he can remember when the lights got bright and he was dipped into some kind of holy water, can remember being pulled away from a lifeless body. He’s always been told he has a good memory— chalked it up to literal godly influence. It used to be a blessing. He now feels like it’s another sick curse.

It hasn’t always been this way, remembering every passing day for hundred of years. Of course, it gets blurry here and there, but there was a time when he was flesh and bone, was a child laughing by the river _Synécheia._

He was born human. Half human, but he remembers the pain and the fear of death and the way he’d bleed when he scraped his knees. His mother was mortal, a seamstress, silk spooler. Oikawa knows nothing about her, nothing of her looks, her kind heart. He however, knows _everything_ about his father.

His father was a being of higher power, a god of space itself. He could warp the distance between two places, could use the stars to travel miles in a matter of seconds. A free spirit. A traveler, completely uncontrollable .

There’s a set of rules that are ingrained into Oikawa’s mind— the rules of time and space themselves. _You may never speak to a mortal. We are beings who cannot tamper with the lives of those on Earth. Your father broke these rules, and you are the product of his blunders._

And so his father was banished, contained to a box buried somewhere where time and space do not meet, his mother killed for falling for the wrong man. In his place, Oikawa was made the ruler of space, the power of a _god_ entrusted into a mortal boy.

An orphan, Oikawa, ruler of time, sits at the feet of Time’s temple. Oikawa knows him by a different name, calls him _Ushijima-san_ instead. Despite it all, they’re on equal footing.

Equals. It doesn’t feel that way.

Oikawa lives the life of a God in the body of a young boy, grows up seeing _everything,_ knowing so much more than anyone his age, wielding the power that little boys shouldn't be able to even understand. So he grows around Ushijima, changes from boy to teen, and time after time is pulled away from the world below. He meets Kiyoko, the goddess of justice, meets Yachi, the lady of fate, meets other gods who bow when they meet him and treat him like he really is an equal. Ushijima is calm, lawful. Oikawa listens to his law, only out of not knowing what else there could be.

“You cannot go to the mortal towns,” Ushijima would tell him, each and every time. “You are not what they are.”

Oikawa remembers how he was born flesh. _You’re wrong,_ he thinks, and stops following orders.

—

The first time Oikawa descends into a mortal village just to _be,_ he’s shocked.

People smile, they laugh. Children run past him, chased by family members who wrangle them back into their arms. The sky sparkles, and people point at it and grin, trade brightly coloured food for golden coins. Women huddle around little stalls picking out intricately sewn clothes, excitedly jabbering over which to choose. All the while, Oikawa watches in amazement of the humanity he’s never experienced.

He must stick out like sore thumb— long, flowing robes, boyish features all lit up with wonder. As he walks through the streets of the little village’s market, people look his way, curiosity ladened in their faces, quirked brows and careful whispers following him around. He hasn’t got any mortal coin, so the market has little use for him beyond a spectacle. Continuing down the streets, he turns towards what looks like a small meadow, heading towards the only other figure standing there.

The boy looks younger than him by a few years, maybe sixteen, maybe younger. He’s dressed plainly, robes fraying, sandals scuffed, hair in every other direction. He spots Oikawa the moment his robes brush through the flowers, whips his head around and stares at him like the wind is knocked out of him. Oikawa can barely believe the amazement in his face, the glow of his cheeks, the sparkle of his eyes.

“Are you an angel?” Oikawa asks, voice lighter, brighter, more excited than cautious as he should be. The boy looks absolutely dumbstruck, frozen into place, mirroring Oikawa’s shock.

“N-no,” he stammers. “Are you… a deity?”

Oikawa smiles, nodding quickly. “I’m Oikawa Tooru. I’m not supposed to be here, but I came anyways. Who are you?”

The boy’s mouth opens and closes, orange hair and brown eyes making him look almost like a koi. It’s a few beats before he’s able to speak again, blinking hard.

“Shouyou. Hinata Shouyou,” he tells him, bowing low. “I… I’m very sorry, I don’t have anything to offer you.”

Oikawa shakes his head, taking a step forwards. “I don’t care about sacrifices,”  Oikawa insists. “I’ve never spoken to a person before.”

“Well, I-I’m honoured to be your first,” Hinata says, straightening his back. Oikawa’s breath catches, and he watches Hinata smile, wide, wonderful.

It’s all that it takes for Oikawa’s heart to clench, to skip time. It’s all he needs to fall for the earth boy with ginger hair and the sun in his smile.

—

Love is weird. Oikawa’s met the god who champions it before, Sugawara, with their creases at the eyes and a million different smiles, but this feels like a punch to the gut and a kiss on the cheek all at the same time. He and Hinata sit in the meadow most days, Oikawa in clothes of green and gold, Hinata rolling the hem of his pants to dip his toes in the nearby stream.

Hinata is so much all at once, is smiles and laughter and fear of the dark, is curious and sometimes stupid and moving without thinking. He’s tapping his foot double time when music drifts down from the town, is braiding strands of grass for a bracelet, is splashing Oikawa with water and asking questions like _do the gods have fun? Do they host parties, have friends?_ Oikawa laughs at that, replies with _not the one I live with_ and plucks a rose from the thorns, tucking it into the folds of Hinata’s tunic.

It takes a while to convince Hinata to travel with him somewhere, takes three months and an hour of begging. Oikawa promises the world, promises grand sights and beauty, recites it all with wide eyes and his arms in the air.

“So,” he says, turning to Hinata. “Where’ll it be?”

Hinata thinks for a moment, chewing the inside of his mouth. “To a garden,” he finally says, in lieu of _Rome_ or _Greece_ or _China._ Oikawa is taken by surprise but never argues, just picks a flower from the ground and cradles it in his hands.

“Hold your hands around mine,” Oikawa instructs, noticing his perplexed expression. “And close your eyes.”

Hinata nods slowly, nervously, excitedly, shuts his eyes so that his eyelashes brush his cheeks. Oikawa holds his breath at the sight before closing his eyes himself, envisioning a grand garden, and when he exhales, they’re already there.

“Now open them,” Oikawa whispers, and oh, Hinata looks even more beautiful in the moonlight.

It’s a secret garden they’re in— somewhere in a royal’s grounds, far, far away from the tiny island of Japan. Hydrangeas bloom in full force, and willow trees weep low, brushing each of their foreheads. It’s nighttime where they are, the moon glistening overhead in the effort to outshine who is in front of him— Hinata, who spins in circles in the centre, looking from left to right in attempt to see everything. The roses, the thorns, each vine creeping down sleek marble brick— he breathes it in like air, touches everything he can and becomes enraptured with the place so far away from home.

He doesn’t speak for a while, neither of them feeling the need. Oikawa has been here before with Ushijima on business, but the beauty is nothing in comparison to how it looks now, curling around Hinata’s essence as the boy sits down on a stone bench.

“It’s… beautiful,” Hinata says. “Oikawa-sama… Thank you so much.”

Oikawa forgets to breath, becomes dizzy and faint from staring. “Anything,” he says. “Anything I can do to be with you.”

Hinata sighs, leaning back into a bush. Oikawa follows the urge in his chest, sits down next to him on the little bench so that they’re pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, close in heart and body. Above them, stars shine and twinkle, glisten in forty-two thousand shades of wonderful, screaming bright and pouring light down from the heavens.

“I wish this could last forever,” Hinata admits, kicking his feet forwards. “I wish we could stay here, and not worry the market and the village all waiting for me.”

Oikawa freezes.

He has an idea.

“Maybe,” he says, quietly, hardly louder than a murmur. “No— we _can_. Hinata, I can make this forever.”

Hinata laughs, eyes widening. “You’re a dreamer, Oikawa-sama,” he hums, stifling a yawn. His eyes droop shut, content with leaning slightly onto Oikawa for support, much more tired than he had let on. Oikawa doesn’t feel any trace of emotion besides pure _love_ escape him, releases the tension in his shoulders and lets Hinata lean onto his shoulder to rest.

Oikawa takes out the flower he had picked from the meadow back in Japan, and holds it tightly in one hand, closing his eyes. When he opens them, they’ve returned to the sunset in full bloom, orange and red swirling heavy in the distance. Carefully, he lays Hinata down amongst the flowers, tucking the one he had plucked and transported with behind his ear, leaving with a kiss to his sleeping forehead and a realization that this is all he’s ever wanted.

—

They live in a celestial temple, somewhere in the space between here and there, now and then. It’s their specialty, their _life,_  being in multiple spaces and places and times at once. Sometimes Oikawa visits Italy and Greece and India at the same time. For now, he focuses all of his being into his body, creeps up the red carpeted steps towards a pedestal in the middle of the room.

Ushijima is here, but not now. He’s existing somewhere in the past of this temple, doing something that isn’t tearing the fabric of time at this very moment, so Oikawa has no need to worry. He shrugs off his cape, draping it over the last step, and begins to climb towards the shining centre of the room.

Just like Oikawa needs a tether when he travels, Ushijima needs some way to tell the time when he slips between past and present. The object on the pedestal is a sundial, three thousand little shadows cast all across it, reading noon and two-thirty am and dinner time sometime else. Oikawa runs his fingers over the edge, feels the slow drag of time itself warping around the object, feels fast and slow all at once. With steady hands, he grasps onto the dial, lifting it off of its plate and holding it close to his chest.

Nothing happens, and Oikawa holds his breath, smug grin spreading across his face. A rush of power surges through him, at holding all of mankind’s time within his hands. In a few moments, he became the most powerful thing in the world, swept away all of Ushijima’s stupid rules in a second.

 _To hell with you and your rules, Ushijima,_ Oikawa thinks, smirking to himself.

The room chills. He smells ozone. He hears a deafening _crack._

Oikawa stumbles backwards, feels a sweep of wind knock him back so that he stumbles back down the steps, landing onto his hands and knees, sundial pulled out from under him. He looks up, curses, comes face to face with Ushijima in his truest form, bearing down at him like he had done it before.

“Oikawa Tooru,” he says, tilting his head. “You stole time.”

It’s matter of fact, booming, all law and rules and code that Oikawa knows he’s broken. Oikawa stands up straight to face him, and for some reason Oikawa feels so _small_ next to him.

“I wasn’t— I was going to give it back,” Oikawa says through gritted teeth, standing his ground with his chin high.

Ushijima’s form flickers, and Oikawa can tell he’s travelling through the time, going back to another day where Oikawa can’t follow. He weakens enough for Oikawa to regain some of his stolen strength before he reappears, as real and corporeal as before.

“Hinata Shouyou,” he says quizzically. “A mortal boy.”

“Like me,” Oikawa spits. “You could kill me, godly powers and all. So why don’t you get it over with?”

“Like you?” Ushijima asks. “You shouldn’t be speaking to mortals. You are stronger than them, more than them, born with a god’s blood in your veins—”

“I don’t care, I’ll never talk to them again just _please,"_  Oikawa pleads, honest to god drops to his knees. “Please let Hinata live.”

There’s a few tense moments drawn out too long to feel like seconds where Ushijima thinks, contemplates what Oikawa’s said. The room still feels static, feels like electricity coursing through him. Ushijima finally decides, raises one hand that holds a staff, and points it towards Oikawa.

“You, Oikawa Tooru, are sentenced to a life untouched by time or death. From this day forth, you will lose every bit or mortality you had left in you, and cease to be human,” Ushijima booms.

Oikawa feels himself wilt, eyes steely, jaw clenched as he watches a thin stream of fog slip from his lips. Ushijima collects the steam into his staff before holding it against his chest, speaking again.

“In accordance to your wishes, Hinata Shouyou will live, but his years will be altered. He will die as mortals do, but he will be reborn,” Ushijima tells him. “Again, and again, and again.”

Oikawa crumbles, feels _pain_ coursing through him as his bones set, as his face contorts. “Ushijima, I beg you—”

“Theses are the rules. Leave,” he booms, turning away. “I have no need for your presence from this day forth. Go live with the people you call yours as something they’ll never be able to touch. All lies in the lady of fate’s hands now.”

Oikawa looks up at him, phases from the steps leading up to an empty pedestal. He feels strong, feels like nothing could break him, and yet his chest _aches_ and his head spins as he lands in the village, standing on legs that should be shaking, stumbling towards the marketplace.

It isn’t the joyous town he’s used to seeing. In the evening light, people murmur, whisper, crease their foreheads into folds and their lips into thin lines. A woman in one of the cloth stores spots him— times before, she had marveled over Oikawa’s robes. Now, she reaches out to him, grabs his hands and looks up in fear.

“Pretty man,” she croons. “Shouyou’s boy— have you heard? Have you seen him?”

“No— no,” Oikawa croaks, backing away. “What happened, is he—”

“Go to the river,” she beckons. “Please, quickly.”

Oikawa’s entire world bends as he closes his eyes, opening them to stand in the meadow he’s visited so many times before. It isn’t empty— far from it. People stand, crouch, surround _something_ by the bank of the river, a woman with bright, vibrant hair wailing, dropping to her knees. No one turns to look at him as he approaches, but they part, letting him see what— _who_ lies there.

Hinata’s body is soaked, paled, eyes shut, arms lying slack. _Dead._

And Oikawa reaches forwards, runs a hand across his face, murmurs _no, no, no_ as if the mantra of denial could save him from death’s clutches. No light shines from his face, no smiles grace his lips. His chest doesn’t rise, and his eyes don’t flutter as if he were sleeping.

“It was an accident,” someone whispers behind him. “The river, it’s high. He fell in, and the current—”

Oikawa doesn’t listen, lies his head to Hinata’s chest and imagines that his heart is still beating, that he wasn’t moments too late. He curses fate, curses Ushijima, curses time and space and the river running high. There’s no steady rise of his chest, no laughter bubbling up from his stomach, no lightness in his lifeless body.

Oikawa can travel miles in a matter of seconds, can be in Russia and Japan and Korea all at once, but he can’t turn back the clock, can’t steal time back and see Hinata’s face, living and bright once more. Ushijima’s words haunt him, _he will be reborn again and again_ — looping like some kind of divine reminder that he’ll be able to see his face another day. It doesn’t ease the hurting in Oikawa’s heart, doesn’t stop him from _aching_ as he pulls away from Hinata’s corpse, standing up on legs that should be shaking, backing away from the crowd of mourners in front of him.

He isn’t human— not anymore. With a heart that aches like a mortal and the body of someone frozen in time, Oikawa vanishes, leaves with one last look at Hinata’s face before fading away.

—

_Edo period, 17??_

_Edo, Japan_

 

Life is bustling, in every corner of the world. Oikawa watches the renaissance come to an end in Italy at the same time that an empire falls, sees another rise. Japan is beautiful as it’s ever been— busier, richer, colourful and built up along the coast of the ocean that surrounds the island. Oikawa likes to stay near the city, likes the house he’s fashioned in his hundreds of years living in solitude.

He’s become somewhat of a myth— a boy who never ages, never dies, living near the mountains, always ornate. Oikawa has enough mortal coin to rival royals, knows the information scholars would dream to discover, has all but the mortality to follow their lives as one. He never expected the people to forget the names of the old gods, but with time and the breath of a hurricane, some things were lost, left behind for people to never quite grasp. It doesn’t bother him as much as it might someone else. Legend slips off the lips instead, like a whisper, a rumour whenever he walks into town.

He’s started leaving his home more within the decades. At first, he was all but recluse, no sign of Hinata being reborn, no desire to face Ushijima and feel the shame of his actions. With the creation of another empire, another government, comes another era of something lovely, of poetry and music that he can hear drift up from the streets when he’s sitting outdoors.

So, to the town he goes, in dress that is too formal for simply walking, hem grazing the streets, whispers following him as they always had. He doesn’t make friends— _not worth it anymore_ — but learns the names of the writers, the philosophers, the musicians who dance for a pretty coin and their livelihood. Oikawa writes when he isn’t watching, when he isn’t traveling, writes _you wouldn’t believe how much of the world depends on art to survive_ in four different tongues, folds the note and stores it with the others.

There are reasons visits to the city are an occasion, obvious when he’s known as the royal, the phantom, the noble with money and a knack for watching plays with old eyes and thanking people in a funny speak. Time passes so quickly when days are compared to centuries, collecting dust on a shelf of memories stored somewhere in his mind. Oikawa tries not to think of Hinata whenever he sees mortals. It’s hard, when he’s searching for him in every face.

And despite all of the life that blossoms around him, the world lacks something that makes it worth living in. Oikawa knows exactly what it’s missing, repeats the name like a mantra at night.

Today, there’s worth in traveling down to the city, promise of a show at the grand theatre, good food, good cheer, and beauty as far as the eye can see. The mortals— Oikawa _hates_ thinking of them that way— are celebrating something or another, something to do with the stars or their beliefs or a tradition that’s still made to uphold. Oikawa sends a letter that he’ll be there, adorns his best clothes of red and gold, clutches a pendent and closes his eyes.

When he opens them, he’s at the edge of the city, in a nook between a plant and a building. Oikawa stretches out his fingertips, tucks the pendant into the folds of the sash around his centre. It’s dusk, lanterns beginning to be lit as the last moments of daylight trickle away into the night’s darkness. Oikawa smoothes out his sleeves, tilts his chin upwards. There’s some kind of rush that comes with walking through the city, feeling the eyes bearing down into the back of his head. Whispers follow him, saying _is that him? Is that the one with the riches and the eyes beyond his years?_ Oikawa’s learned to stop listening, to tune out the voices as he makes his way to the theatre, following the tell tale sound of music.

When he arrives, it’s to see the crowd outside, the richest nobility making their ways indoors, chatting and talking and dropping their pay for a ticket to see whatever wonders are held inside. The doorman smiles wryly when he sees Oikawa, bows his head as Oikawa gives him his coin.

“Oikawa-sama, it’s a pleasure,” the man says before straightening his back. “You’re as well dressed as always.”

Oikawa blinks, looking down at his choice of clothes. Fashion was harder to keep up with than language, and language was hard enough. His only judgment of what’s acceptable for the times are paintings, most that come from royalty rather than everyday life. “Ah, was I too formal again?”

“Oh, we’re just all underdressed,” the man assures him with a wave of his hand. “Enjoy the show.”

Oikawa nods his head, continuing into the main theatre. There’s new paintings adorning the walls since he’s last been, beautiful paintings of waves and actors and intricate trees. He takes his time to inspect them, fingertips hovering over the lines, the colours. He’s been to the shores where this picture takes place, recognizes the lines in the sand and the trees casting shade over the water. Something sparks inside of him, something unfamiliar and warm. Oikawa doesn’t understand the feeling, doesn’t get why it flickered when he saw the painting.

Maybe something else was at play. Maybe he’s been alive too long.

Walking towards his seat near the front, Oikawa sits down, brushing his hair from his eyes. People have already filled the seats, whispering to one another as a small band of musicians tunes, stage hands fixing props one last time before the show starts. Oikawa plays with his nail beds, picking at the skin to watch it reform. He’s _anxious_ for something, restless in a way that spikes tension between his shoulders.

When the show starts, it’s with loud voices and extravagant dress, lively introductions made as people set the scene with cloth shaken to create water, backgrounds moving as people hold them. Oikawa smiles— out of all of the operas and musicals he’s seen in the world, this is what he enjoys. Laughter, bright colours, swords drawn and stories told through motions.

It’s in the centre of it all that he spots him— kimono ruffled and torn from earlier conflict, hair long, inky black, face contorted and painted with makeup. Throughout it all, he shouldn’t have been able to guess who the character was played by, but there is no hiding those big, shining brown eyes.

Hinata Shouyou is alive. Screaming his lines, dressed up in character, falling into the arms of another actor in mock faint— but alive, chest rising and falling like the tides, cheeks flushed with colour and eyes still fluttering under lids.

And after too many years to count, after having his lifeless body haunt his dreams, Oikawa lets himself cry, lets himself praise Ushijima’s word that— that he wasn’t lying, that Hinata is back in the flesh, heart beating and breathing and existing.

He’s here, just shy of Oikawa’s grasp.

And it’s beautiful, watching him dance and sing. He’s playing the daughter of a noble, rich and faint hearted, but he brings attitude to the role with every movement, every flick of his wrist or glance to the crowd. Oikawa knows he shouldn’t try to catch his attention, but he wills every godly power he can into the chance of Hinata looking his way, nearly shouts when their eyes meet with a glimmer and a shine. It’s a split second of a glance until he looks away, returning to his role and finishing the scene with grandeur and melodramaticism expected of the actors of this time. Oikawa watches as he exits, heart panging as he leaves.

The rest of the show becomes a waiting game of spotting Hinata among the other actors, of ignoring all the plot just to focus on him. The stage continues to change in setting and pace, quickly and magnificently, but Oikawa can’t find anything wondrous about it when Hinata is _right there_ , existing in a way that is otherworldly at best.

When the show finally comes to a close, and the actors line up to bow, Oikawa rises to his feet. It’s a western custom he picked up while in London after watching a show (star crossed lovers set in Verona’s scene) but he can’t keep himself from applauding the actors, or one in particular, not caring for how much of a fool he may look. He’s too overwhelmed with the truth that Hinata Shouyou is alive once again, breathing and living and reincarnated in the flesh.

It’s all that matters now. It’s all that ever will.

After the show is entertainment of every kind in the main hall area. People always vy for Oikawa’s ear when he’s in town, ask him _Oikawa-sama, did you enjoy the show?_ The answer, of course, is yes, with starry eyes and a brilliant smile. They compliment his clothes, bow their heads as he passes— he’s a _God_ so this level of respect he shouldn’t be unused to, but they see him as a royal and Oikawa isn’t sure if he likes being called something he’s not.

The hall is big, made for the artists and nobles with national acclaim. Most of the actors have joined them, showing off tricks and talking, but Hinata hasn’t emerged yet. After hundreds of years, Oikawa finds himself restless, finds himself evaporating from mortal view to slip between the crowd and the walls until he’s in the dressing room area, mostly empty at this point except for one figure in the corner, wig hung on his dresser, ginger hair noticeable from across the room.

Anxiety buzzes inside of Oikawa, as if he hadn’t spent centuries planning what to say when they met again. Somehow, all of that planning means nothing now, because Hinata is as soft as he remembers him, humming as he brushes the long black wig out, eyes warm and golden and celestial.

Oikawa takes a deep breath, makes himself visible again. He guesses he should announce his presence somehow, tap on the door as if he just wandered in, but instead he finds himself taking a step forwards, hand only brushing against the wall as he stares. Hinata hears the noise, turns around with a quizzical expression as he sets the brush down. Instantly, their eyes meet, Oikawa’s chest swelling as Hinata’s eyes widen with curiosity, with something familiar, the same way they used to all those years ago.

“Hello, are you lost?” Hinata asks, voice airy, light.

“No,” Oikawa responds, hoping he isn’t too keen. “I was looking for you, actually. You did brilliantly tonight.” Oikawa bows, lower than someone at his assumed status should be expected to. “Oikawa Tooru, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, Oikawa-sama, I’ve heard about you,” Hinata says, scrambling to stand. He almost trips over his kimono, a beautiful blue and white thing, and bows, anxiety present in all of his movements. “I’m Hinata Shouyou. It’s an honour.”

“You don’t need to bow,” Oikawa laughs lightly. He wants to say: _I know who you are,_ but the words never leave his lips.

“You’re beautiful,” he tells him instead, and the words have so much weight to them, so much more than either can describe. He wants to move closer, wants to see Hinata’s enchanted look in more detail.

“Ah, um, yes, my character, she is quite pretty,” Hinata stammers, looking away. “It’s a shame they don’t let women in theatre, but I hope I did her justice.”

Oikawa’s lips quirk. “I was referring to you.”

He takes a few steps closer, so that Hinata has to tilt his chin to meet his eyes. At this distance, he sees the blush dance across Hinata’s skin— he’s wiped off his makeup, once white visage now a glowing pink with the flush from Oikawa’s words. Oikawa feels his heart flutter at Hinata’s reaction, at how he plays with the hems of his sleeves shyly.

“C-can I speak freely?” Hinata asks him, looking up to meet his gaze.

Oikawa’s heart tightens at the unwavering brown eyes before him. “Always.”

Hinata seems taken aback for a moment, but speaks. “You… you’re very different from how I pictured you.”

Oikawa almost laughs. “Good or bad?”

“Amazing,” Hinata admits. “I… It’s strange, but I feel like I know you.”

And those words are all Oikawa needs to feel the ocean tug at his teardrops, to force himself not to cry as Hinata smiles up at him, breaking his gaze to stare down at the floor. Oikawa resists the urge to reach out and touch his cheek, to run his fingers through his hair. He is still starstruck, still reeling from the site of his one love breathing, smiling, living again. It makes him aware of every atom in his body buzzing, makes him dizzy, makes him giddy.

“Would you leave with me?” Oikawa whispers, fanatic. “Let me show you the city, be my guest for the night?”

“Yes,” Hinata breathes, reckless excitement reflecting off of his eyes and into Oikawa’s, answer said without hesitation, with so much trust it sends Oikawa’s heart soaring. There’s no reason for him to give in this much to him, but it’s fate, it’s design, and Oikawa would have it no other way.

“Come, let us go then!” Oikawa exclaims, reaching forwards to tug Hinata along.

“Wait!” Hinata squeaks. “I can’t go out in this wear, I’m not even wearing makeup—”

“And?” Oikawa asks. He must look deranged with this glint in his eyes, this newfound youth sparked in his old soul. “Am I not already in the wrong dress as well? Who cares for what townspeople may think? Does it matter?”

Hinata looks as if the wind was knocked out of him hearing that, mouth agape, eyes wide with wonder. Oikawa worries, just for a moment, if he said the wrong thing— but Hinata nods, that blush returning to freckled cheeks, and _oh,_  is he in love with all that’s alive.

So Oikawa pulls him through the cracks and alleyways of the building, leads him down the streets and through the marketplaces he’s learnt out of virtue of seeing this town be built, looks up at the stars hidden by sunset and follows the map they’ve laid out to the highest point in the city. Hinata giggles the entire way, shouts apologies to the bodies they knock into in their haste.

“How do you know the way?!” Hinata shouts over the bustle. It’s a late night— a holiday or celebration of some sort, Oikawa isn’t sure. “And how are people not recognizing you!?”

Oikawa throws a grin over his shoulder. “I’m quite good at not being seen.”

Eventually, they reach a small stone stairway, leading to the roof of one of the bigger buildings, curved with tough shingles that give equal footing. Oikawa helps Hinata down, although it’s somewhat in vain, because he stumbles on his hem as they reach the edge of the roof, slipping onto his backside with a soft _oof._  It doesn’t hurt, but Hinata fusses either way, only stopped when Oikawa beckons him to sit down next to him.

They’re secluded enough that they won’t be spotted, and their clothes, as too formal as they are, shelter them from the breeze that drifts above the city. It’s twilight now, sunset making way for violet skies, illuminating everything in a glow reminiscent of brightness. Hinata looks vibrant in this light, blues contrasting the orange of his hair, rounding the edges of his shoulders, exposed from the slip of his kimono. Oikawa sighs, looking back to the city, before looking to him again, done pondering his words.

“Tell me about you,” Oikawa urges, and Hinata, albeit surprised, obliges. He learns about his family of seven, of his mother and father, of how he started acting because he had a baby face and was shorter than everyone else. Hinata spins stories of shows gone good and terrible, of the suitors he’s had to wave off and the times nights spent entertaining warped into nights spent longing for something he doesn’t understand. He tells Oikawa, _I never really was bothered by dressing in a woman’s clothes, just bothered by the fact that none of them get to work on stage._ He talks and talks, and Oikawa takes in it all, watches his lips, cherry red, move, watches his legs kick and his sandals tap against the building.

And twilight turns into nighttime, reveals all the stars Oikawa has memorized like old friends, twinkling as if to challenge Hinata’s brightness. Oikawa can’t bring himself to look away, can’t bring himself to think anything but _beautiful, beautiful, alive._

Hinata quiets, taking a deep breath, smile gracing his face as he looks Oikawa up and down. Oikawa is an old soul, old money, all with a young face and eyes without age. Hinata’s eyes dance up his arms, across his neck, to his face to settle on his eyes.

“So, Oikawa-sama—”

“Oikawa is okay,” Oikawa tells him.

“Oikawa-san,” Hinata corrects, smiling wryly. “So what do you do?”

Oikawa hums, leaning back slightly. “I’m a poet.”

Hinata’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Mm, need something to do,” Oikawa says. “And I paint. These years are very good for art, you know.”

“Wow,” Hinata sighs. “I—if you want— if you don’t mind, could I see?”

“Absolutely,” Oikawa promises. “You can spend the night at my home, if you’d like.”

“Spend the night!” Hinata yelps, looking a little shocked.

Oikawa cocks his head, blushing in the darkness. “Ah, was I too forward? You may come by whenever you want. My doors are always open.”

“Thank you,” Hinata whispers. There’s genuine care in his voice, a kind of undiluted softness that makes Oikawa’s chest swell. He inches forwards, hand brushing against Oikawa’s for a split second in a way that makes his skin burn before pulling away. “It’s gotten late, hasn’t it?”

Oikawa blinks. He’s forgotten that days and nights often mean something to the people who are ruled by them. A part of him is bitter at this moment coming to a close, but a bigger, kinder part of him reminds him Hinata is no longer out of his grasp. “I can walk you home, if you’d like.”

“Please,” Hinata says, and _oh._

Oh, how he’s missed this.

—

And so love blooms like sakura petals, brilliant and new. Oikawa speaks wise beyond his years, so content with the reality of finding Hinata after all these years. Hinata doesn’t mind the way Oikawa talks, laughs when his words sound too old, when he speaks with a tongue almost forgotten. It’s never mocking, merely fond, even though they’ve barely known each other for a month. But one month turns into three into six, turns into Oikawa buying Hinata clothes of every fabric he finds beautiful or sash he thinks is smooth, no matter the protest. He comes down from the mountains for days at a time, pays off Hinata’s nightly dues so that they can spend the time walking through gardens, picking flowers and slipping them into each other’s hair.

Hinata falls faster than he could ever imagine, falls deeper and deeper into Oikawa’s orbit, in the way he knows the stars like the back of his hands and every nook and cranny of the city like a longtime lover’s back. Today, Oikawa sends him a letter, arrives at his door to deliver the invitation back to his home, and Hinata in all of his shyness somehow manages to say yes.

So Oikawa takes them up on the back of a speckled stallion, lets Hinata ride as he guides the way. It’s a full day’s journey, the sun basking down and warming their skin, every tree they past casting shadows over Hinata’s face. Hinata packed bread and fruit for them to share, and although Oikawa has long since needed to survive on mortal meals, he savours the time spent resting together under weeping willows, across from running streams.

Eventually, they reach the small stable where the horses are kept. Oikawa only borrows them from his closest neighbour, a farmer with kind eyes he’s known her entire life. She bows to them as he returns the horse, looking past Oikawa to where Hinata is, petting the horses and feeding them grain.

“Ageless man,” the woman says, turning her gaze back to him. “Have you finally found what you were looking for?”

Oikawa smiles, mystic, untelling. “Yes,” he answers. “It is good to be back.”

Those are their parting words as he and Hinata move on, travelling by foot on the last stretch to Oikawa’s dwelling. There isn’t much of a road to walk on, and little rivers cut through the rock much too often, but it’s beautiful in its view and scenery. It shouldn’t take them past sunset to reach their destination, but they slow so Hinata can inspect the flowers and admire the view, shout out _Oikawa-san isn’t this brilliant!_ Oikawa responds _yes, of course,_ but his eyes are only fixed on Hinata, on how he shines brighter than he remembers, laughing and spinning and plucking flowers from the earth.

They take the longer route for the scenery, and when they reach another stream, Oikawa bends over, lifts the hem of Hinata’s yukata so that it doesn’t drag through the water. Hinata doesn’t expect it, hops across the stream before turning around, blushing with a small gasp.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d call you scandalous,” Hinata laughs, turning away to continue on.

“Mm,” Oikawa hums, jumping the stream. “Just courteous, just for you.”

Hinata looks away again, but Oikawa can see the blush from the back of his neck, rosey like the sun that begins to set behind them. Oikawa holds back the sigh as Hinata tucks a strand of hair from his face, humming quietly under his breath as he does so. It makes him feel giddy, feel alive, feel human in ways he really isn’t used to. Slowly, he holds out his arm, bowing slightly.

“Would you take my arm and let me lead you?” Oikawa asks. “Or is that scandalous as well?”

Hinata reddens profusely, looking down at his outstretched arm. “No, it isn’t scandalous,” he whispers, as if there is someone nearby to hear him. “Just intimate.”

“Well, there’s no one watching,” Oikawa says, lifting his head, and _oh,_  he knows he’s being a flirt now, but it’s worth it for how it makes Hinata’s heartbeat stutters audibly and for how it makes the entire world seem so small. “So it would do us no harm.”

Hinata doesn’t hesitate, but is slow when he accepts Oikawa’s arm, let’s himself be pulled to his side and nearly swept away, Oikawa’s wanderlust so much like the first day they met. He’s eccentric— Oikawa _knows_ he’s eccentric— but it’s okay, because Hinata laughs at how enthused he is at having another person visit his home.

At having _Hinata_ visit his home.

The home in question is not very much a home— nothing is really home to Oikawa— but a dwelling, humble upon first glance. It’s built into the cliffside, soften arched roof collecting water and moss, plants hung along the patio of the outside.

It’s nerve wracking. Oikawa has never had to have another person in his home, never had to _worry_ about impressions on the way he lives, but there’s no point in turning back now. Hinata would never be the type to judge, and with his expression soft, petting the peonies that bloom, Oikawa could never deny him.

So he slides open the front door, a thing locked with magic only he can work, and lets Hinata wander in, lets him take a look around at where he lives. It’s not unlike so many other houses, but it’s big, much bigger than it appears from outside. With spacious rooms separated by paper walls and a staircase, wooden and knotted, to the upstairs, it hardly seems like the humble abode that they saw when they came in.

Oikawa chews the inside of his cheek, watching Hinata take it all in. “So,” he says, dragging out the sounds. “What do you think?”

Hinata whips his head around to face him, face wild with glee and excitement, the same emotions that bubble gold in Oikawa’s throat and make him dizzy with fondness. Hinata sighs, eyes softening.

“It’s wonderful,” he breathes, and it _clicks,_ Oikawa just realizing it now.

 _Home,_ he thinks. _Home is you._

Hinata toes off his sandals, and Oikawa follows in suit, too stunned by his guest to remember the simple pleasantries of having company. He never feels like he needs to wear a mask, though. Not around Hinata, who has him wrapped around his finger without even understanding why.

“Do you need something to drink? Or eat? It was quite a long journey,” Oikawa offers, extending an arm towards the kitchen. He’s bought food for the first time in many years, stocked cupboards and ice boxes with fruits and rice and anything that Hinata may like.

Hinata thinks for a moment before nodding. “Just water, please.”

Oikawa can’t even be discouraged, nods quickly and leaves him to continue admiring the house as Oikawa slips into the kitchen, pouring water from a pitcher into a small cup.

“It’s bigger than it seemed from outside,” Hinata marvels, spinning around again.

In truth, it’s simple magic. Oikawa can warp space, make it smaller, make it bigger. All he did was make a bigger reality inside of this small one.

“It startled me, as well,” Oikawa tells him, returning to the main area and handing him the cup. Hinata takes it with a small bow, bringing it to his lips only to pause and look back up at Oikawa, as if thinking about what to say. In the end, he chooses to say nothing, sipping the water as he holds Oikawa’s gaze.

Just one single glance, one bond of eye contact between them— it’s all it takes for Oikawa’s heart to stutter. He’s immortal, he doesn’t even _need_ a heartbeat.

 _Old habits,_ Oikawa thinks, watching as Hinata sets the glass down on a nearby table.

He shows Hinata around the house, to the guest rooms, the washroom, the lounge area with large windows and a bookshelf that spans one entire wall. It piques Hinata’s interest, has him inching closer to run his fingers along the spine of the novels and scripts bound in various kinds of paper. They’re mainly in Japanese, but from his travels Oikawa collected books of all kinds— English, Russian, French, Cantonese, Greek— words spun with different tongues to tell tales larger than any life mortals know. Hinata stops on one book, drumming his fingers over the word written in a foreign script across the spine.

“What does this say?” he asks, cocking his head as if a change in angle could make it legible.

" _Odyssey,"_ Oikawa tells him. “It is Greek poetry— somewhat of an acquired taste.”

Hinata’s eyes flicker with wonder, hands hesitant as they leave the bookshelf. He turns to face Oikawa, all soft edges and elation, smiles and takes a few steps to become closer to him.

“You said you write,” Hinata says. “Would… would you ever show me?”

“Yes,” Oikawa breathes, and the answer is instantaneous and without thought or care. “Come, I’ll show you my arts room.”

He slips his hand in Hinata’s, ignores the squawk of surprise and cry of _you have an arts room?_ as he leads Hinata through another doorway, sliding close the door behind them once they arrive. The moonlight pours into this room, illuminates it brighter than candles alone, but Oikawa still goes through the process of lighting one, setting it on the table as he pulls thick journals from his personal desk, laying them out on the floor. Hinata kneels down beside him, curiosity and wonder spiked as Oikawa flips through centuries worth of words, all about the one who sits next to him now.

He settles on a more recent page, one where the dialect isn’t so winded and old, lifts the book into Hinata lap. It’s heavier than he expected, and a small _oof_ escapes his lips as the book is set down on his thighs, opened to a page filled with ink splattered poetry in an endearing scrawl. Hinata’s lips quirk, and he looks up towards OIkawa’s expectant face, still curious.

“You don’t use scrolls,” he states, looking back down at the book.

Oikawa shrugs. “A merchant gave them to me. It’s easier. Now read,” he urges, sitting forward with earnest.

Hinata nods, and if his eyes shine it’s only for a split second that Oikawa can see before the move down, reading the pages contents. It’s very silent then, their breathing and the rustling of trees from the window the only noises heard, amplified louder and louder by excited heartbeats and the starstruck buzz in their veins. There’s something ethereal in Hinata’s softened expression as he reads, mouthing the words, fingertips so gingerly tracing each word as if a touch not gentle could cause it to shatter. Oikawa isn’t sure why this of all things makes his throat knot, but he allows it to either way, watches Hinata with his chin balanced on hand, so reverent of his beauty that shines brighter than the moon.

It’s a long time before Hinata speaks again, after flipping through pages more of Oikawa’s writing. He rubs his eyes, by now watery enough that the moon catches their gleam, and sets the book down with the others.

“Oikawa-san, that’s… beautiful,” he whispers, and _oh,_  Oikawa notices how their knees touch in this proximity. “I… I’m not sure what to say.”

Oikawa wonders if he realized everything he wrote was about him. He isn’t sure how to ask, isn’t sure if he should ask, and is left only reaching out, pressing a hand to Hinata’s cheek. Hinata doesn’t startle this time, leans into Oikawa’s touch and lets his eyes flutter closed. It makes Oikawa’s mind go blank, only registering Hinata’s trusting softness, Hinata’s weight against his palm, Hinata’s lips all parted and plump, _Hinata, Hinata,_ _Hinata._

“May I show you something?” Oikawa asks. It’s all but a whisper of the breeze, washing over Hinata’s ears and making him crack open an eye. “I was going to save it but… I want you to see it now.”

“Of course,” Hinata replies, reaches up to grab Oikawa’s hand and hold it in his own. It’s terribly intimate in a way Oikawa isn’t used to, in a way that makes him dizzy with adoration, in a way that makes them both hold onto moments longer than needed.

Eventually, Oikawa slowly stands, walks across the room to a closet of sorts nestled in the wall. Hinata doesn’t move from his place on the floor, but leans over to better watch as Oikawa slides open the door, disappearing into the room for half a second. He pops his head back out, smiling and waving his hand to beckon him along, waiting until Hinata pads up behind him to move and allow him to see the contents inside.

It’s a wardrobe of all sorts of colours, muted in the low light but still wide in their shades and patterns. Bright yellows and soft greens, reds and pinks and whites with blooming purple etchings, all kept safely inside, presented like an offering to him. Hinata circles in awe, touching the different silks and cloths, pushing them apart to get a better look at the many garments hanging.

“I know that theatre is expensive,” Oikawa explains. “You’re buying your own wear on top of your costumes, and women’s fashion tends to get expensive to the point where you don’t make money when you’re trying to keep up. I figured I should help in whatever way I can.” Oikawa watches Hinata turn back to face him, disbelief written clear across his features. “I have bought clothes for you to wear from day to day as well. To your right are some suited better for travelling, the pants can be rolled so that they don’t soak when you cross the rivers.”

“Oikawa…” Hinata breathes, forgetting the honorific in his surprise. “I’m… I don’t know what to say. I’m so grateful, I can’t— I don’t—”

“Shh,” Oikawa says. “You don’t have to say anything more. I did this for you because I wanted to. I want you to be happy, Hinata.”

Hinata exhales, biting his lip to contain the emotion threatening to spill over. It flickers across his face, the overwhelming joy mixed with something Oikawa doesn’t want to name in his eyes, breathing into the air and intoxicating Oikawa with his happiness. That smile, that starlight, sunshine smile wipes across his face, pulls cheeks and reveals teeth as Hinata shakes his head.

“I… thank you, so much,” he tells him.

“The pleasure is mine,” Oikawa says with a bow.

And every feeling, every word spun in those journals, every poetic thought or line of prose Oikawa has ever thought doesn’t even begin to compare to the raw feeling, the desire coursing through him, the years and years of love stored in every eternal cell in his body threatening to pour out. The care that Oikawa holds for Hinata, the way he regards him as the only thing in his life worth looking forward to is evident in his veneration, in how he treats Hinata as the person he loves most without saying those words. It aches like a creaking house in winter, aches like old bones or ribs after laughter or the aftermath of a good time, aches with that same kind of love Oikawa prays Hinata can return.

And when Hinata looks at him like he used to, all those years ago, Oikawa thinks he just may.

—

So Oikawa watches Hinata’s plays, watches him act roles of spirits and background characters or someone desired, watches him monologue in his new finery and laugh and cry on cue, watches all with fondness and the same amount of care as the first time. These days, Oikawa pays off Hinata’s bill, steals him away from a night spent otherwise entertaining the guests and meeting suitors, walks with him through the town to all of the spots he— _they—_ love. There’s a library they once spend the night reading in, a town centre with street performers that dance and sing, little alleyways with shops and stalls selling food and drink and cloth so much like that marketplace in the very first town Oikawa visited. The nostalgia of it all is warmed by having Hinata by his side, at his arm, something so treasured and intimate that it sometimes makes Hinata’s cheeks blush.

Today, they leave straight from the theatre to Oikawa’s home, Hinata changing the moment he arrives backstage and leaving out the back door with Oikawa in tow. The journey takes less time now, Oikawa warping the space between them and the house only slightly, stopping when Hinata kneels down by one of the streams to wash his face, humming and clicking his tongue as he does so. He recoils at the cool water, but looks back at Oikawa with mischief in his eyes that warns him a split second before Hinata sends a splash his way, dampening his arm and pulling an ungodly— Oikawa rolls his eyes at his choice of words— shriek from his lips. The water is cooler than he expected, sends him toppling down into the shallow water, splashing Hinata as karma for his actions.

Just as he’s about to apologize, Oikawa kicks more water towards Hinata, catching him off guard enough that he joins him in the drink, toppling on top of him and pushing his head back under the water. The stream is all but two feet deep, but it’s enough that when they sit up, they’re drenched and shivering slightly, laughter spilling from their mouths as Hinata leans onto Oikawa for warmth, beaming as the giggle shake his body and reverberate through Oikawa’s chest. It buzzes, makes his smile as he pulls them both up out of the water and towards the other side of the stream, setting Hinata back down as he wrings out his sleeves.

“Well,” Hinata says, smile so wide it must hurt. “Your plan of keeping me dry didn’t quite work.”

Oikawa shakes his head, throat tight with fondness. “Come, let’s get you dried. The house isn’t much further.”

They make the rest of the trek in record time, Hinata skipping the last part of the way to reach the indoors. Oikawa busies himself with starting a fire (magically, of course) as Hinata removes his shoes, carefully avoiding tracking water into the home.

“You can go to the washroom, wash up, get out of your dry clothes,” Oikawa tells him. “I’ll warm the bath after I finish here.”

Hinata nods, lifting up his pants and darting across the room, slipping into the other room. His concern is endearing, makes Oikawa smile as he lights the fire, sitting by it for a moment to allow his hands to dry up. Before heading to the washroom, he fetches dry clothes for the both of them, making sure to fold the edges neatly. He knocks on the washroom door once, waits for Hinata’s call of _come in_ before sliding it open and setting the clothes on the wooden counter. He looks up, words of greeting dying on his tongue when he spots Hinata in front of him.

He’s finished washing by now, old, wet clothes discarded on the ground, bare body only covered by a towel draped around his waist. He still sits on the bathing stool, but his back is facing Oikawa, shoulders left on display, skin bare and taunt over lean muscles underneath. A noise dies in his throat as Hinata looks over his shoulder,  eyes wide and blush creeping up his neck as they both quickly look away, Oikawa trying to grasp the coherent part of his brain.

“I'll warm the bath water,” Oikawa says, and he can feel Hinata's eyes follow him as he moves towards the pump (magical, pulling water from another place in the world.)

“How does that work?” Hinata asks him. “Where does the water come from if we're so high?”

Oikawa blinks quickly, blush already making it hard to bluff the magic. “It's, um, a vein in the rock? The stream, it… connects in here, so this taps into it,” he tells him. “And the material of the bath lets the water heat very fast.”

“Oh!” Hinata exclaims, excited. “So it won't take long?”

Oikawa turns around, bath filled. “No, maybe only a minute or two,” he says, and _oh_ he wasn't ready to be face to face with Hinata's bare collarbones and chest, eyes wide and bright and flush creeping down his sun bronzed skin.

Oikawa leans down, where the coals lie under the bath to heat the water. Really, it's only there for Oikawa's pretentious aesthetic, but it's helpful in keeping the illusion of magicless bathtubs. He lights them easily, scooching back from underneath to sit back up, collar of his tunic slipping down and revealing his shoulder. With Hinata all but naked in front of him, it shouldn't make Oikawa lose his voice, but he's so overwhelmed and can feel Hinata's curious glance on his skin that he's thankful for the lack of conversation.

“It… it should be warm by now,” Oikawa tells him, standing up and adjusting his still damp clothes. “I can leave you to it—”

“You’re shivering,” Hinata notices, standing up off the stool. “Take some of the water and wash off while I bathe, I don't mind.”

Oikawa finds himself sputtering, Hinata's face only heating up more and more at the suggestion. It shouldn't be something that has them both blushing— public baths are normal, and they just fell into a stream together— but Oikawa can't help but feel his heartbeat in double time at the idea.

“Okay,” Oikawa finally says, nodding. He quickly takes the washing bucket, collects some of the overflowing hot water from the bath and turns around, waiting until he hears the slosh of Hinata stepping into the tub to slip off his own clothes. He can’t bring himself to turn around as much as he wants to, scrubs the day off of his skin with his back turned, leans over and does his best to scrub his hair with the little warm water he has.

Suddenly, the echoing noises of water are joined by a low hum, by a strained voice carrying a soft tune. Oikawa never knew Hinata to sing, but here he is, haunting melody filling the room with love in six eight, percussion of fingertips drumming against the wall passing the junctures of syllables off key. By most standards, he does not have a singer’s voice, but Oikawa can’t find anything imperfect about Hinata, can’t _not_ be enchanted by the song he sings.

Against his nervous reaction, Oikawa turns to look at him, to watch as Hinata, laid back so that his head and toes peek out from the water, runs his fingertips along the edge as he mouths the lyrics. It’s a lullaby, too quiet, too mournful to be more than a cradle song, holding age in it’s words, the heavyweight of caretakers from years before. Hinata is as old a soul as he, still a person born again from a period many centuries ago. Oikawa stops his movements, listens to Hinata, exhales softly as not to interrupt the flow of his floating voice.

_Where did my boy's baby-sitter go?_

_Beyond that mountain, back to her home._

_As a souvenir from her home, what did you get?_

_A toy drum and a shō flute._

The last note carries out like a memory of a whisper, embedded in the water and the stone walls. The cool gaze of Hinata’s eyes warms when it drifts to him, corners of his mouth lifting, body shifting in the water so that his elbows rest on the edge of tub, chin perched atop crossed arms. They hold the moment like that, whatever remnants of the song slowly fading as the water returns to its role as the loudest thing beside this silence, this unsaid feeling that drains from Oikawa’s chest and threatens to spill promises he cannot keep.

—

When they finish bathing, dressed in dry clothes and warm cups of tea in their hands, Oikawa and Hinata make their ways to Oikawa’s study, where the full moon and all her stars can shine in and illuminate the glow of Hinata’s skin. His hair is damp and eyes softened, hands wrapped around the cup Oikawa had given. The sight is intoxicating, leaves Oikawa at loss for words when the conversation is turned back to him. His heart stutters, words slip out garbled, and Hinata smiles despite it all, despite it lack of poise, sighs and leans back to look up at the stars, at the source of all Oikawa’s power. It makes him feel small, makes Oikawa feel less godly and more mortal, like how he should be.

“Oikawa-san,” Hinata says. “Sometimes, I hear rumours. About you living forever, about you being unable to die. I… never believed it, but it’s strange. How I feel like I know you better than anyone else.”

Oikawa’s heart catches in his throat. He looks at Hinata, whose gaze has shifted back from the stars to him once more. The moonlight captures the sheer adoration in his eyes, the browns turned rose under the blue light, freckles like constellations set in the skin of his face. This moment is more beautiful than any painting Oikawa has ever seen, any poem he has ever written. He reaches his hand out, only so far that it can brush Hinata’s fingers. Instantly, Hinata entwines their hands together, looks back up at the stars with a contemplative kind of nostalgia blooming across his features.

Oikawa bites his lip, looking down at their joint hands before speaking.

“I used to be lonely,” he whispers. Hinata turns back to him, eyes wide, sad. Oikawa raises their hands, sets them in his lap, all the while raising his free hand to Hinata’s cheek. “Not anymore. Never again.”

Empty promises, things he won’t be able to keep no matter how much of a pull wrenches in his gut.

Hinata moves so that he is no longer facing the window but Oikawa, touching his wrist with warm fingers that dance down his forearm. “What does that mean?” he asks. It’s hopeful, like the way the sun rises, like the moments of twilight they so often share together. Hinata’s eyes reflect all of this and more, stuns Oikawa into surprise, into speaking the truth.

“It means I love you,” Oikawa tells him. “Shouyou, I—”

“You love me,” Hinata whispers, surprise mixed with elation in his tone. “You love me?” he repeats, looking up, inching closer as if he had heard wrong.

“Yes,” Oikawa breathes. “Always, forever, I do.”

Hinata shakes his head, eyes flitting to their joint hands. “You could have anything in the world, and you chose me.”

“I would always choose you,” Oikawa tells him. “I’ve been in love with you since the day we first met.”

“Amazing,” Hinata sighs, almost like he can’t believe it. “I… I don’t know when I started loving you. It— it feels like I always have.”

Those words make Oikawa choke up, make the water in his eyes slip down his cheeks. It’s glimmering in the moonlight, and Hinata seems to notice, reaching up to wipe the tears from his face. Oikawa closes his eyes, breathing deeply as Hinata holds his face, feeling so at home in his touch, his hold, his centre of gravity pulling him closer with every inhale.

“I love you,” Oikawa says again, opening his eyes. “For now and forever.”

Hinata smiles, and the emotion of pure joy in his smile makes Oikawa lightheaded. “I love you too, Oikawa-san.”

“Tooru,” Oikawa corrects. “Call me by my first name.” _Like I’ve always wanted you to._

“T-Tooru-san,” Hinata whispers, biting his lip.

Oikawa laughs, and it’s airy and barely more than a heavy exhale, because of course this respect he still holds of class and age still shines through. Hinata hums, melodic like the old lullaby he had sung hours before when only water separated their skin. Now, Oikawa runs his knuckles over Hinata’s cheek and brushes his hair from his face, worships him like the angel he always thought he was. Hinata blushes under the attention, but relishes in it all, fitting against Oikawa’s touch like this was the very place he was meant to be.

“Shouyou,” Oikawa says, and he almost laughs at how saying his first name makes Hinata keen. “Let’s sleep in the moonlight, in here. I can bring in the futons, and we can drink tea and talk until morning.”

Hinata shakes his head, smile growing wide with fondness across his face. “You're a madman.”

“I’m in love,” he mutters. “Just for you.”

And so they lay out the blankets and pillows on Oikawa’s study floor, lie facing each other so they can watch their expression as they talk without words, only by smiling or tracing the hair on each other’s arms. Not for the first time, Oikawa wishes he could control time, could freeze this moment and make it a picture, remember it forever and have in engraved on his skin as more than a memory, of an immortal reminder of the love they share. He pushes the melancholy of mistakes away, at the remembrance, as that thought is what drove him to this immortality in the first place. He cannot change the past, but he can live in the present, and for now, Oikawa watches Hinata fall asleep, eyelids drooping until they close, body lax beside his in the moonlight blue, beautiful as they day by the riverside, beautiful as the first time they met and every time after.

—

This thing— being in love, and having Hinata know it— it leaves trails wherever it goes. Oikawa travels less, only to bring back exotic flowers he says are from traders or new books translated for Hinata to read. Hinata shares the enchantment with him, leans on his side when he reads to him, tracing his finger over every word Oikawa says. He sings sometimes, but always in the quiet mornings— at two in the morning when he must think Oikawa is asleep, from the outside, drifting down the mountainside and in through the open windows of Oikawa’s study. They walk arm in arm to the theatre, and Hinata never stays for the entertainment portion anymore, _perks of you being wealthy,_ he says. It’s teasing, but it makes for more time spent leaning up against each other, in each other’s arms, drowning in the browns of each other’s eyes.

This kind of love is something that burns slow inside of both of them, that follows them throughout their lives, that gives Hinata the courage to press his face to the crook of Oikawa’s neck and gives Oikawa the chance to warm the bath water each time, just so that when Hinata steps in, the bliss in his face is tangible as something thankful, decadent.

And months pass just like that, finding new places in each other’s lives, in the mornings spent watching each other wake, in breaking the rule of living together without a blessing, in still not kissing because Oikawa holds some traditions higher than others. This intimacy bleeds blue like the moonlight under which they both confessed, bleeds luminous and bleeds embers, keeps them both wrapped around each other like needle and thread, like poetry and song, like bird and nest.

They climb the mountain together once, take the supply route to the top and bring a basket of food and drink to enjoy when they reach the destination. Oikawa does not look at the sights as much as he looks at Hinata enjoying them, smiles wider when he’s caught staring at how Hinata’s ginger hair fades into the sunset so perfectly. They take their time on their way, in no rush to reach the top, both there for each other's company more than anything else. Nervously, about halfway through the hike, Oikawa reaches out and grabs Hinata’s hand. Hinata smiles, and doesn't let go.

The path reaches a plateau when it ends, a small outcropping where, overtime, Oikawa had built a look out to watch the stars from. Hinata makes noises of amazement as he approaches, pulling Oikawa along towards the boarded floor, flopping down onto stone carved seats.

“Is this what we came here to see?” Hinata asks. He's still caught up in the sights, in the stars fading into the dark sky. Oikawa’s heart flutters.

“Yes,” Oikawa tells him. “Though I really wanted to spend time with you.”

Hinata wasn't expecting that moment of genuine sentiment, blushes under Oikawa’s gaze and averts his cheek. Oikawa hums, in love with how flustered a compliment can make him, in love with _him,_ scooches closer so that they sit thigh to thigh.

“All these stars,” Hinata muses. “Sometimes, I look at them and feel… safe. They don't change, they're a constant. Like you. They remind me of you, for some reason.”

Oikawa feels a pang, a twist of irony. He's ruled by space, being the god of it, so it's natural that there's some kind of familiarity between him and the stars. But it's Hinata’s look of wonderment and sheer love that sets the rhythm in his veins to a loudening thump, the contact and warmth of their hands and shoulders and thighs drowning Oikawa in all of Hinata's aura. It makes him forget to speak, makes him mumble _I love you_ before he responds.

“They're the only constant thing on this earth,” Oikawa tells him, turning to face his way. “Besides the love you and I share.”

And it's true— Oikawa has watched kingdoms rise and fall, has watched Japan break apart and piece back together, watch the borders sew shut and new eras begin. He's watched rulers be born and die, watched Cleopatra and Caesar fall, watched people's homes be invaded and burnt and be rebuilt in another name. He's only ever know the constant wrinkle in the fabric of space to be constant, the stars overhead to be the thing he can look to when lost, and the deep, world warping _ache_ of longing for Hinata beside him to exist deep inside him wherever he goes. It grounds him, keeps him steady, reminds him that _he’ll come back, he’s here, he’ll always be here._

“Forever,” Hinata says, an echo of a past promise. “Our love is forever.” He reaches forwards, resting a hand on the curve of Oikawa’s neck. Slowly, Oikawa leans forwards so that their foreheads touch, holding Hinata closer in his embrace.

“I.... you’re everything to me, Shouyou,” Oikawa whispers. “This, this love is all that matters. Not a government’s blessing, not a certificate or divine ceremony. Just us, just _you_ telling me that.”

Hinata smiles, overwhelmingly _happy,_ looking deep into his eyes. His hand moves to play with the soft hairs at the back of Oikawa’s neck, taking a deep breath. “You- you mean that?”

“Of course,” Oikawa affirms. “If you want forever, I will give it to you, humbly, with all my heart and everything I can.”

It’s only after learning to read Hinata that he understands this expression he makes, the one where his face falls but his eyes brighten and lips spread wide— it’s something not many people are lucky enough to see or patient enough to understand. Even now, with a millenia’s worth of words on his tongue ready to be used, Oikawa could never find the ones to describe this look of pure reverence that swells in his eyes.

“Yes, Tooru,” Hinata whispers. “Forever, yes.”

And it’s there, with the stars as their audience, with Hinata’s hand tickling the back of his neck, with a hand placed on the small of his back, that Oikawa leans down, brushes their noses and brings their faces even closer, to the point that they breathe the same air. Hinata, ever trusting, ever in love, closes his eyes, and it’s permission spoken in the words of the silent, the courage Oikawa needs bestowed by that single action. For the first time since he fell in love all those years ago, Oikawa closes the space between them, kisses Hinata with every bit of godly worship and decadence he can. Hinata sighs, and there’s a moment of pure peace and calmness that swirls around them before either move.

It’s like a spark that grows into an ever warm flame, Hinata pulling himself up to meet Oikawa’s lips, moving soft and slow against Oikawa’s mouth. Oikawa can barely believe it’s happening, freezes for half seconds when the reality of the situation dawns on him, where he needs to tug himself back down into Hinata’s hands. He kisses Hinata as if he were a shrine, venerates him with a tongue brushing against his lip, with the gentlest touch to his jaw. It’s all he can do not to kiss desperately, to rush an otherwise world changing moment, one he’ll remember for the many years that come.

But Hinata wants it, wants him, tugs on his hair and bites his lip— and even though their teeth clink and their inexperience shows, the two learn the insides of each other’s mouths, map out what it means to be intimate in this way. It’s foreign and spectacular and hilarious because Hinata chases Oikawa’s every movement and nearly climbs onto him from leaning so far into his touch, and Oikawa is so at _home_ in this moment that he forgets it will one day just be a memory.

So Oikawa brings him home, back to their home (but hasn’t home been Hinata the entire time? Oikawa watches him bathe from the bathroom door before they retire to bed and thinks _that must be true,_  because he never loved the stone walls and the tub until Hinata made use of it for the first time.) It’s late, so late, and their process of nightly routines has been altered by kissing and touching and laughing because _gods,_ forever is a long time to promise, and they both meant every word of what they said.  

And when Oikawa lays Hinata down in his— _their, their, their, their_ — bed, he does so with a hand behind his head and lips on his nose, a faint smile ghosting his lips because this is what they’ve wanted. This commitment, this love, this _hands around your waist and in your hair_ kind of crazy about each other. Hinata learns the dimples in Oikawa’s back and Oikawa learns every freckle that adorns Hinata’s lithe form, the thousands that fleck overtop shoulder blades and down his back. He wants to kiss every single one, wants to kiss Hinata, wants to hear him laugh at the sensation and gasp and giggle over and over and _over_ again.

When it’s later, and Hinata’s curled on Oikawa’s bare chest, the smaller looks up to him, brushes his hair for no other reason but to feel it between his fingers. Oikawa hums, tries to pull their bodies closer, nuzzles his nose into Hinata’s ginger hair.

“I love you,” Oikawa tells him. “Forever.”

“Forever,” Hinata echoes. “I love you.”

And Oikawa closes his eyes. He’s found him, he has him. He has him, _finally._

—

Hinata dies the next day.

It’s an accident, really. An evening show for a large crowd, Oikawa in the front row, so happy to watch Hinata play his role.

It happens faster than anyone can track— a sword, supposed to miss— swung down and slicing clean through Hinata’s neck. There is no eye contact with Oikawa in the crowd, no dying words. Only a pool of blood that stains his white kimono red, that causes him to fall back onto the stage with a thud.

Oikawa can remember being born, and yet, this day always seems blurry when he looks back on it. He knows he lunged out of his seat, knows someone tried to hold him back, knows he made it to Hinata’s side as his eyes fluttered open one last time, lips moving to say words no one could make out.

(Oikawa wants to believe they were _I love you.)_

 _(It was only one word_ — _Tooru.)_

—

_1817_

_Countryside, Japan_

 

Here’s the thing about _knowing,_  about certainties: it drives you to your breaking point.

Oikawa wants to summon Ushijima to scream _when is he coming back,_  wants to refine his patience or meditate until they meet, wants to scorch the entire world of life in his anger and frustration.

He doesn’t, of course. He moves and travels and bends the space, wanders and never stays in one place too long. It hurts more than he’s willing to admit, but he grows used to the pain. The cities he lives in usually provide distraction, but now, they become a dull noise in the back of his head, a reminder of human life ever changing and new.

He can’t take it in Edo, or London, or Rome, or Kyoto, so he leaves again, closes his eyes and travels west. He doesn’t know the farmlands of western Japan as well as he ought, and even though these lands are familiar after centuries, there’s a spark of something different in the wooden bridges, in the lush trees. He walks through what may pass as a town— a few scattered houses and stalls, placed within miles of each other. Long stretches of rice farms span across valleys, sheltered by rolling hills that wrap around them.

This road is long, and Oikawa knows it well. Travelers come by, looking for somewhere to stay on a journey, looking for a guide. For a god with control of space itself, it seems like a good place to set up shop. He’s purchased a small, measly home, one that used to belong to a monk before his untimely death. It was easy to move— warp his old home into this one— but exploring the people of a town cannot be done with magic.

Oikawa crosses a bridge, old cobblestone and wood, taking his time to peer up at the darkening skies. In the distance, rain pours down in heavy sheets, and he knows it’s just a matter of time until it hits him. Sighing, Oikawa fixes his hair, trekking on. The soft leaves of weeping trees rustle gently in the wind, accompanied by the distant sounds of children's laughter, playing in a village in the distance. Oikawa quirks his lips, lingering for a moment longer until he feels rain being to drizzle, and fades out of sight.

His new house is already filled with his old things, accumulated from dozens of lifetimes across the planet. He’s kept Hinata’s old things stored away in a trunk where he doesn't have to look at them, but keeps his journals out in a new, smaller study. He sits down on a cushion, tracing the spine of a thick book dated hundreds of years ago.

He remembers Hinata reading it, his face lighting up. He turns away.

Just then, his thoughts are interrupted by a sharp knock on his door. Oikawa stands, not knowing he had neighbours nor people who’d approach him— he hasn’t earned the title of a myth in this town yet, but can never shake the aura of godly influence that makes people steer clear. Slowly, he walks to the door, humming to himself as he does so, pulling it open to reveal the person he would expect least.

Hinata Shouyou stands, living, barely, on his new doorstep, a basket held in his thin arms, a cart behind him.

Oikawa stumbles slightly, wind knocked out of him yet again. It was only a hundred— eighty? ninety?— years since they’d last met, so short compared to the gap before, but so painfully long either way. He stares, dumbstruck, unsure what to say, taking in the familiar orange hair, though much thinner, that smile pulled thin across pale skin, those bright, shining eyes, meeting his in shock.

“H-hello,” Hinata says. He coughs— he’s drenched to the bone, he must’ve caught the rain. “I’m selling vegetables, from the farms. Would you care for some?”

Oikawa doesn’t know what to say, wants to say _come in,_ wants to say _don’t you remember me?_ He wants to repeat _I love you, I love you, I love you_ over and over until Hinata can remember the lifetimes before this where they were together, were happy. It hits him in the gut, washes away that momentary elation— Hinata doesn’t remember giving his hand to Oikawa, doesn’t remember living with him in the mountains and kissing under the stars, doesn’t remember calling him Tooru and doesn’t remember the first life before that.

Oikawa swallows, thickly. “I’ll take everything you have.”

Hinata blinks, like he can’t believe it. Neither speak, staring each other down for a few seconds before Hinata breaks away, coughing violently again.

“I— I don’t know how much that’d be,” Hinata confesses.

Oikawa reaches into one of his pockets, imagines he is reaching into his vault of mortal coin. He pulls out a bag— heavy, more than someone of Hinata’s class would see in ten years— and places it in his hands.

“If you need more, tell me,” Oikawa urges. “My name is Oikawa Tooru, I just moved in. Would you like any tea? Shelter from the rain?”

In the background, lightning cracks. Hinata looks from the inside, to Oikawa almost longingly, then back to his cart and the money in his hands.

“My mother,” he explains, softly, regretfully. “She needs the money— I— I should go.”

“Wait!” Oikawa calls. “Please, let me walk you home. This weather is terrible, and you’d do better with company.”

Hinata shakes his head, bowing as he takes a step back. “I couldn’t— this is already so much— thank you, for this,” he tells him. “I’ll— will I see you again, Oikawa-san?”

“Yes,” Oikawa answers, instantly. “Of course, Hinata.”

As he walks away, Hinata doesn’t even ask how Oikawa knows his name. The two merely trade off the cart, Oikawa watching as Hinata rushes home, coughing once more into his elbow and turning the way he came.

It’s bitter, in the best way possible, makes his legs turn to jelly and his brain to mush. Oikawa drags the vegetables inside, and collapses to his knees, catching his head in his hands, and _laughs._

 _He’s back,_ Oikawa thinks, smile blooming. _He’s back._

—

The next day, Oikawa is up with the sun, dresses in the cleanest clothes he can find, brings pockets full of money and an empty basket to the little village he saw on his way the day before. He has no reason to go other than seeing Hinata again, and fueled with that determination, he slips into the square, looking around at the meek stalls and stands selling various produce and meats. He doesn’t spot Hinata, rather, spots a woman with the same bright hair staring down at her hands.

“Ma’am?” Oikawa says, approaching her. “I’m looking for a boy my age— Hinata Shouyou. Would you know him?”

The woman’s eyes fill with tears. “Oh,” she croaks. “You haven’t heard.”

“Haven’t heard what?” Oikawa asks. His heart sinks into his stomach in fear.

The woman falters, turning to the side so as not to meet his eyes. “Shouyou passed last night— while he slept,” she tells him, voice catching. “He is— wasn’t as strong as he used to be.” Her eyes drift off into the distance, past Oikawa as if he weren't even there as tears poured over her cheeks. “That sickness, it’s been killing so many.”

There’s something to be said about breaking from the inside, about crumbling and stepping back, about whispering _no_ like you can’t believe it, like you _shouldn’t_ believe it because _it’s not true,_ Oikawa’s heart cries, _not this soon._ It warps his vision and distorts his chest, makes the space between him and the mourning woman— his aunt? Mother? He’ll never know— seem so much larger, so much _more_ than he needs. Oikawa feels the grains of time slip from his fingers, sand in an hourglass trickling away just as he could grasp it. It hurts his head, makes it pound, makes him stumble as he backs out of the village, aware of the stares but not caring as he heads to the forest, already closing his eyes and bringing himself to the temple where he once grew up.

In the centuries he’s been away, not much has changed. The eloquent banners are not torn, the marble staircases stay intact and glossy. Oikawa does not enter, merely waits at the foot of the steps, looking up to face the figure at the top of the stairs. Ushijima stands as if he were waiting for him, which he likely was, is, has been for years— because he must’ve known he’d come soon enough. Oikawa uses every ounce of strength not to climb those stairs and throw him down.

“Why,” Oikawa snarls. “This was not in the curse.”

“This is not a curse, Oikawa. It is a reprimendent— a deal, of sorts,” Ushijima informs him.

“I don’t care,” Oikawa seethes. The floor around them warps until it is no longer an incline, and the two are at the same level. “All I care about is Shouyou, and you’ve taken him from me again— why do you not let him live?”

Ushijima furrows his brow. “That is in the hands of the lady of fate, as you know— if it is his calling to go, then he must.”

“Bullshit,” Oikawa spits. “You— you’re _lying.”_

Ushijima blinks, unmoving. “What reason would I have to, Oikawa? It is still a miracle you’ve met him every life he’s had, you cannot deny.”

“But he doesn’t— he doesn’t remember!” Oikawa cries out. He surges backwards, distancing himself from Ushijima as he feels his blood boil in a mourning rage. “He doesn’t know who I am, but I do. Kill me, make me mortal— it would be better than this.”

Ushijima shakes his head grimly. “You know this is not how this works. You waste time speaking about the manner with me.”

Oikawa grits his teeth, whipping around so they no longer meet each other’s eyes. “Fine,” he bites. “But know this, Ushijima— this will not end me. And like a phoenix in the fire, Hinata will be reborn, and as sure as the sunrise, I will be there.”

And with that, he leaves to a house already painted with memories of Hinata, with tears tracking silently down his face. Oikawa, the immortal boy, shivers, and prays that next time, he won’t be too late.

 

**END PART ONE**

 

**Author's Note:**

> HOO BOY so this gives you a taste of what this au will be like. i hope you guys stick around for more! as always, hmu on tumblr @spacegaykj or mooks @mooksmookin to talk oihina or any of our aus! comments, kudos, and shares mean the world!!! thanks for reading!


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